On Hearing The Princess Royal[1]Sing.

("Dans ta haute demeure.")     [Bk. III. ix., 1881.]     In thine abode so high     Where yet one scarce can breathe,     Dear child, most tenderly     A soft song thou dost wreathe.     Thou singest, little girl -     Thy sire, the King is he:     Around thee glories whirl,     But all things sigh in thee.     Thy thought may seek not wings     Of speech; dear love's forbidden;     Thy smiles, those heavenly things,     Being faintly born, are chidden.     Thou feel'st, poor little Bride,     A hand unknown and chill     Clasp thine from out the wide     Deep shade so deathly still.     Thy sad heart, wingless, weak,     Is sunk in this black shade     So deep, thy small hands seek,     Vainly, the pulse God made.     Thou art yet but highness, thou     That shaft be majesty:     Though still on thy fair brow     Some faint dawn-flush may be,     Child, unto armies dear,     Even now we mark heaven's light     Dimmed with the fume and fear     And glory of battle-might.     Thy godfather is he,     Earth's Pope, - he hails thee, child!     Passing, armed men you see     Like unarmed women, mild.     As saint all worship thee;     Thyself even hast the strong     Thrill of divinity     Mingled with thy small song.     Each grand old warrior     Guards thee, submissive, proud;     Mute thunders at thy door     Sleep, that shall wake most loud.     Around thee foams the wild     Bright sea, the lot of kings.     Happier wert thou, my child,     I' the woods a bird that sings!     NELSON R. TYERMAN.